


don't forget to breathe

by wajjs



Series: Across The Universe (vld fics) [30]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut, Younger characters, vague mentions of alien anatomy (super vague)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 08:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Like a dreamed prayer that persists, Kolivan speaks his name.





	don't forget to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Both Kolivan and Antok here are younger than what they seem to be in the show! This is set years before the events of VLD and is sort of following my hcs from my other fic, Battle Born.
> 
> Also, this was a wip for the longest of times and I decided to finish it now, so I apologize if anything seems too abrupt LOL

**don't forget to breathe**   


It’s truly a rare thing for them to ever have enough of a reason to wear the formal version of their uniforms — a thinner material, though still practical; more details embedded into the seams and lapels, still allowing movement though it was compromised to a degree. It’s not that they were never worn, because if so the mere existence of this version of the uniforms would mean wasted resources. They simply did not have reasons to don them often.

(Maybe once the war ends— maybe once things are more settled—)

((He knows it’s all futile hope, though he’s stubborn and he clings to it. No one would ever dare to call him hopeless.))

Nevertheless, he doesn’t have time to allow his thoughts to wander free, taking his mind through either well known paths or new, demanding ones. He needs to finish getting ready,  _ a moment of tentative peace _ is what was promised, and if he doesn’t hurry he’s afraid the moment will come and go and he’ll never get to form memories of a single time he hadn’t been forced to fight.

(He had never been born a warrior, at first. He’s as self-made as warriors can be. He had to make himself after his previous self had been undone.)

His hands go still for the expanse of a breath as he puts on the long tunic that artfully covers his torso. The ends of it reach his thighs, the brush of the fabric against his still bare lower half almost distracting enough to pull him away from the sight of his scars vanishing under the plum fabric. He’s not ashamed of them, though he’s not enough of an idealist to think that they are testament of him being alive. Scars are just scars, another thing about himself that composes him into who he’s been made to be, but never uniquely identifying. If they were, they would be a weakness crying to be exploited by an enemy that knows where to look.

Efficient are the movements that push the outer lapel of the tunic up and to the side, securing it in place. The slit that starts at his hip becomes more notorious— a feature of the outfit he’s still not quite sure of its purpose, though he guesses it might have to do with ease of access to stashed hidden weapons. A hard learned lesson, one that some are still on their way of never forgetting: threats do not respect tentative peace.

He’s about to move on to the pants when the door to his chambers opens, giving way to the one being he trusts with everything, including his life. (He knows more than well the trust is reciprocated.) His hands stop once more as he half turns to look at the other, not throwing his head backwards even with their height difference.

“Is there a problem, Antok?”

Even with the mask on, it’s still obvious the question brought forth a smile. “No. No inconvenients have happened, Kolivan.”

The door closes on its own, and after it, they are pushed into companionable silence — even if only just awkward, perhaps tense. There’s something simmering within Antok, something that Antok is waiting for the right instant to let go. Kolivan knows it will only take the weakest push.

“Then why are you here?” A direct question is often the right answer. Kolivan watches as Antok takes off his mask, perfectly aware that he’s yet to put on pants. “You certainly put on this uniform quickly, considering your apprehension earlier. I have to finish getting dressed.”

“I’m aware,” he says, his smile tugging at the deep scars criss-crossing his mouth, making the sunken part seem wider. At Kolivan’s steady stare, he adds: “I wanted to see you, before the charade starts.”

Kolivan glares at that, lips setting into a thin line. “I told you one too many times that I am alright. Your worrying is futile, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Indulge me,” Antok steps closer until they can certainly feel each other’s body heat, “please.”

“I must get ready—”

“ _ Kolivan _ ,” a pause, then: “You know there’s still time.”  _ You should know… No. You  _ must _ know that _ — 

“No,” he frowns, hands closing around the garment he’s still foolishly holding. No, he’s not having this argument again; no, he’s not pushing his troubles away. He is truly the definition of _fine_. “Now, if you don’t have anything else to say, I have to finish getting ready.”

(It’s fruitless and he knows; Antok can always read him like an open book, and this time Kolivan is not even trying to write his pages in code.)

“At least let me  _ see _ ,” Antok doesn’t hide the whine from his deep, rumbling voice, “let me look at it.”

“It’s been looked at already. It’s healed.”

“I know,” he concedes, taking another daring step closer, yet still never looming over Kolivan although he’s taller, “I still wish to.”  _ I still need to. _

Silence falls upon them, seemingly stretching on forever and into eternity, encompassing them till even the sound of their breathing is taken away. Silence is often the most deafening of sounds. Silence might as well be an answer in and out of itself. Antok is beginning to think this is the only reply he’ll get to his request when Kolivan’s hands carefully disentangle themselves from the trousers of the uniform. The soft fabric falls soundlessly to the floor between their feet, becoming a carpet for Antok’s knees as he drops down after Kolivan’s nod of assent. Knowing Kolivan, that’s almost the same as if he had screamed his yes.

His hands are careful as he slides one of them under the slit of the tunic, pushing the flap of fabric aside to reveal strong, muscular thighs. The sight is one he adores, one he worships in the privacy of his thoughts and their rare shared breathing in even rarer glimpses of existence. He’s done it so many times already, still he caresses the thighs like it’s the first time he ever does. Their thickness, the strength they hold, still all too vulnerable to bruises, scars and tears. Antok gingerly traces old marks interlacing them with the new, still healing, ones so not a single one is made to feel different, more important. He knows how Kolivan feels about these scars.

Antok is not surprised when tense muscles relax like in ripples with each caress, with each second after the beat of their hearts (delirious second of nothingness that’s immediately followed by another beat, by another second, by another beat—). He looks up and meets Kolivan’s steady gaze: will he ever dare to let him know how much his eyes let on, how much his eyes scream? The passion Antok finds in them, it no longer surprises him, no longer leaves him tense with apprehension and barely concealed longing. That had been the torture of times past... now, now he can take that passion and fuel it with his own, losing parts of himself in the process.

Like a dreamed prayer that persists, Kolivan speaks his name.

Antok’s skin aches. It’s unlikely stars and their designations will let them be like this for as long as they live. If not the stars, then… war.

But those are thoughts that spoil even the sweetest of delicacies. He chases them away and rumbles deep in his chest, pressing his lips reverently to the inside of Kolivan’s thighs, hands falling to Kolivan’s hips, the fabric of the tunic draping down and covering his own head. There’s no gasp, only a stuttered breath, choked on its birth, and Antok kisses and presses the flat of his tongue against marred skin. Above him, Kolivan stays standing firm— if not because of his pride, then because of his stubbornness.

“Antok,” Kolivan says, closing his eyes because there’s no one to see, and lets his body become pliant, “we’ll be late.”

Words are spoken against his sensitive skin. “It’s not us the ones who are being honored. Our absence won’t be noticed immediately.”

“I am the next in line to leadership,” he finds himself in need to remind both of them of that fact. With such searing kisses being dealt to him, he’s not sure if he’ll ever want to leave this room tonight.

Lips get close to where Kolivan knows he’s starting to drip. Close, but still too far. “I shall stop if you truly wish me to,” Antok breathes, and they shiver in tandem. “Do you wish I stop?”

“No,” Kolivan says then, without doubt. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Then I will do as you wish,” he smiles, brushing the tip of his nose along the path of a jagged scar, kissing its end, “always as you wish.”

He doesn’t waste time, then. He relishes in the soft wounded sound Kolivan lets out as he drags the flat of his tongue over Kolivan’s dripping slit. Antok can and will get drunk on the taste, the smell, the feeling— that rush of adrenaline, of power, of stars coming alive in his blood because he’s giving pleasure to the one who holds his heart. Over and over, he repeats the movements of his tongue, never quite breaching or hurrying up, keeping a rhythm that he knows will ease away the worries Kolivan never dares to speak.

Kolivan lets out a breath, slowly, and a hand moves to rest atop Antok’s head, still covered by his tunic. He chances a glance downwards once more, unable to see anything beyond the plum fabric. The shape of Antok’s head is easy to make out and, for some reason he’s not in the mood of thinking about, he shivers while focusing his eyes on it. Maybe there’s something to say about his sight being hindered, maybe it’s something about how it amps up the anticipation that’s crawling inside of him— no. No. He’s not thinking of it. Antok’s tongue barely pushes inside him (he can feel it, feel how the action makes him feel electrified) and his world shifts into a pause.

He knows he’s getting hard, and he feels Antok’s hot breath bathing over his sensitive appendage. The constant prodding at his slit has him curling his toes and fingers, nails scraping the fabric they find in their path. This feeling—these sensations that are washing over him in tidal waves, crumbling away the barriers of his soul one by one… and it’s all because of Antok’s delicate touch, his reverence, his obvious… his obvious…

It makes him want to cry. He would, if he were someone inclined to such expression of emotions. But he recognizes the need and doesn’t deny it because there’s no point in doing so. He wants to give Antok all that Antok gives him, he wants to give everything he can in return, yet here he is, stumbling even when he’s in the safety of his thoughts, stumbling over the paths the scars in his very essence form.

He returns to the present by the grace of insistent fingers that spread him open, that curl tight inside him. Fingers that tease and bring forth eras of pleasure, untying that tightly wrapped knot that squeezes Kolivan’s core. He gasps and whines, knees almost buckling and giving into the need of falling. His body is singing tunes only Antok knows how to play, the tempo picking up and spreading throughout his limbs until he’s shaking (minutely, delicately), until he’s succumbing to the inferno that wakes whenever he’s with Antok like this.

And Antok must know, because he’s purring and cooing against the indent of his hip bone, and soon he’s stretching Kolivan even more by adding another finger. He smiles when Kolivan spreads his legs ever so slightly, when his hips twitch and tremors run through his mighty thighs. He smiles because of the trust that underlines every action and every breath when they are together, like this. Kolivan’s breathless gasps are what finally makes Antok leave one lingering kiss where his cheek was just resting before he parts his lips and eagerly takes the other’s cock in his mouth.

The blunt feeling of nails barely dulled by the fabric, the loud, earth-shattering moan, the way Kolivan curls inwards into himself, his strong hand pulling Antok’s head closer… everything about that makes the long wait between moments of intimacy worth it.

“An—Antok,” Kolivan grumbles and bites back his whines, little wounded sounds coming from deep within his chest. The wet heat around him is so so beautiful, there are galaxies swirling in his eyes. “Antok, I will—I will…”

_ Not yet _ , he cries out internally. Even when moments before he was insisting they hurry up, he doesn’t really want to let go. Not so soon. Not now, when they finally have time to be together. Tomorrow will come and they’ll be pushed apart by opposing forces, both with their own burdens and obligations to fulfill. So, he closes his eyes tightly until there are sparks going off in his conscience. Not. Yet!

He’s about to rip the fabric of his tunic in a moment of utter weakness when Antok slowly lets go of him, heat receding until there’s only the suggestion of it, the ghost of lips against his feverish flesh still making energy sing odes in his body. Shudders wreck him at the feeling of Antok’s breath fanning over the head of his cock that’s surely weeping, hard and almost painful in that point previous to release. His sensitivity is being reduced to that place of feeling, that stretch and that heat, that tightness deep in his gut coiling in on itself until it’s one moment away from snapping.

A broken gasp pushes past his lips when Antok adds to the fire burning him, fingers filling his entrance and  _ curling _ and—

“Antok!,” Kolivan tries to avoid whining and fails, face burning with shame at the all-consuming sound of his partner’s chuckle.

Much too soon the fingers leave him again as the other gets to his feet. Kolivan’s hands are left with nothing to hold onto so he reaches out and closes them around Antok’s shoulders, needing the firmness to center himself and find his way through the pathways of sensation. He pulls them closer, presses their mouths together and releases his shivering sounds into the safety of their sealed lips, the softness of their tongues, the sweetness of their kiss. He can only exist in this moment, in their joining, in the sparks that run through their bodies, through every point of contact — the way Antok’s hands are wide enough to wrap around his thighs, arms strong enough to lift him up and direct Kolivan’s long legs around a sharp waist.

There’s no outside world that’s louder than the harsh gasp Kolivan lets out at the feeling of Antok’s covered hardness against his uncovered one, the promise of them fitting in more ways than a few. So he grinds down his hips, rubs himself against the other as much as he can, and digs his heels into the small of Antok’s back to make the pressure even more blinding. They shouldn’t be doing this, Kolivan thinks but washes it away by kissing Antok over and over. One moment of shouldn’t will make up for a future of nothing but an eternity fulfilling a role. One moment, he promises, and Antok reinforces the promise as he moves a hand to undo Kolivan’s braid. One moment for them to make their own, for them to explore, for them to  _ be. _

This close, Kolivan can feel the fluttering in Antok's chest, tastes his words against his lips.

"Beloved," Antok says in reverence, voice made of stars.

" _ Beloved _ ," Kolivan breathes out, agreeing, and lets this moment be what ignites.


End file.
